


Love

by destielgivesmethefeels



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, But also, Domestic Fluff, Heavy Angst, Hurt Merlin (Merlin), Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Merlin is dad now, Merlin is sad, Mordred is good, but then he is happy, just a tiny sprinkle of implied smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2020-05-19
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:33:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24267484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/destielgivesmethefeels/pseuds/destielgivesmethefeels
Summary: Love is conniving in its surprises.
Relationships: Agravaine/Merlin (Merlin), Merlin & Mordred (Merlin), Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Merlin/Will (Merlin)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 54





	Love

**Author's Note:**

> Hey y'all. Just stretching my fingers again with this one. I've always thought Merlin would be a great dad, so here is Merlin being a dad.  
> Enjoy!

Somewhere in Essex, on a street tucked away neatly from the rowdiness of city’s life, paved by overgrown trees and parallel rows of modern homes, a Victorian terraced house stands out without an ounce of effort. Exposed brick walls with their steadfast pride flaunt patches of green moss as undeniable testimony of absolute loyalty to their roots, witnessing in utter indifference as the passing of time brings inevitable changes to their surroundings. The crimson door bearing golden numbers reading “54” demands the attention of which it righteously deems itself worthy; its insistence only grows more fervent in the typical English downpour, which is meticulously painting the air in slurry white. 

Venture inside and a long corridor would be found, sparsely lit by amber warmth radiating from low hanging pendants. The living room to the left is empty, lights from the neglected TV dance without inhibition on the felt material of the empty sofa, and flaringly bounces off the metallic patterns on the wallpaper. One would understandably be taken under the illusion that the house has been steeped in a peaceful decade-long slumber if it is not for the alluring aroma of permeating warm spices pouring out of the kitchen abundant in light. 

With a steadily paced hand on, Merlin guides the cold belly of the knife along his slender fingers. The crunch of uniform celery slices, the curt clanks of the blade coming down on the heavy cutting block, and the rhythmic gentle tapping of raindrops against the window panes come together in a mesmerizing impromptu percussion concerto. His hums are indistinct as he stirs the celery in a cast-iron skillet, along with salt, pepper, three cloves of garlic, and perhaps a touch too much olive oil. Looking out to see the downpour still relentless coming down on his garden, he decides to sprinkle in some Aleppo chili flakes for good measure.

Adding the celery to a waiting dutch over, Merlin carefully heaves it into the oven. As he watches over the cooking pot with a half-full cup of lemon jasmine tea in his palms, he sighs in contentment and allows his mind to wander aimlessly, paying little attention to the invariable passing of time, until a soft thud and sounds of wet footsteps at the front door draws his eyes to the corridor. 

“Hello? I’m home!” 

“Take off your shoes. I’m in the kitchen.” Merlin can feel a smile forming on his lips, in a way that he is sure is causing the corners of his eyes crinkle, something he has recently found out to his dismay. Time really does not spare anyone. 

Mordred appears in the hallway with a grimacing grin and a pair of soaked sneakers hooked on his fingers. His raven curly locks are matted together in a wet mop, dripping onto the shoulders of his duffle coat. The tip of his button nose and his pale cheeks are colored pink perhaps from the onslaught of cold persistent rain. 

“Forgot your umbrella again?” Merlin tilts his head in amusement at the boy before him, who responds with a shy chuckle and downcast steel blue eyes. “Go upstairs and change, will you? Dinner will be ready in a few.” 

As he watches Mordred makes his way for his room with a slight skip in his steps, Merlin reckons that perhaps it is time he started thinking of him as a young man, rather than a boy. After all, he is in his second year at university. Two years, and still the thought of his Mordred being an undergraduate imbues in Merlin an unassailable sense of great pride. Even though the house does feel too large when Mordred is away in London, Merlin tries not to let it weighs on his thoughts too much or let to show in his tone whenever he calls in a thinly veiled excuse to check on him. Instead, every fortnight, he would spend hours preparing their home for his return, washing his sheets, cleaning his room, stocking up on Mordred’s favorite snacks, and cooking him warm meals to replace the ramen and fast food his little boy - no, young man - must have endured in the absence of his care. Today, it is white beans and celery stew, Mordred’s favourite.

Merlin is laying the table when he hears light prances down the sets of creaky wooden stairs. Soon enough, Mordred is sitting at the table in his oversized sweatpants and a worn-out t-shirt, a bowl of steaming stew in front of him wafting billows of hot steam against his still cold skin despite the shower. 

“Not yet, Mordred.” He chides softly when Mordred picks up his spoon. He drizzles some of his homemade chili and garlic infused olive oil in Mordred’s bowl, before giving his own the same treatment and settling down in his seat. “Alright, dig in.”

“Don’t you think it’s a bit much?” Mordred scrunches his nose, in his question an unmistakable tint of playfulness, which Merlin is sure is a product of his own making. 

“I made you this stew, and I can surely take it away, you prat.” 

Their dinner continues with the same banters going back and forth, jovial and unrestrained, the sounds of silverware against porcelains playing in the background to their boisterous conversation about colorful stories that have unfolded in the two weeks Mordred has been away. Looking at him exuberant in under the lambent lights of the kitchen, with his flushed cheeks stuffed full, his hands moving about to add lively animation to his wondrous tales, Merlin muses fondly. Perhaps, even though the stubbles on his face may say otherwise, his little boy is all but a kid at heart. 

“How are things with that girlfriend of yours, anyway?” Merlin asks when Mordred has paused amid his storytelling and recoursed to gulping down spoonfuls of beans. Truth be told, Merlin would be lying if he said he was thoroughly pleased to know Mordred being in university also meant him dating without his supervision. He has always thought Mordred is far too kind for most of those university students who may hurt others simply by their indecision and inadvertence, even if he knows they are well justified in their young age and consequent lack of experience. But he doubts there is much he can do to effectively assuage his irrationally gratuitous worries without criminalizing himself in Mordred’s eyes. “What is her name again?”

Mordred’s jaws stop their unabating chewing, as he swallows thickly and looks up from his bowl to meet Merlin’s inquisitive blue eyes. “Nevermind that, we…,” he says, ducking his head down to his half-finished stew. “We broke things off.”

“Oh?” Merlin isn’t quite sure what to say in response. “I’m sorry, Mordred. I…” When he can’t find the words to make an appropriate end to his sentence, he decides it is best to leave it unfinished.

“It’s alright. I’m already getting over it.” Mordred reassures with a soft smile. 

But Merlin knows him far too well not to notice the fragility in the gentleness of his voice and the saddened weights on the corners of his lips. He resists the innate urge to rush over to his side and tug him into one of those full-body embraces he used to give Mordred whenever he had tripped over himself on the playground. At that moment, Merlin makes peace with the fact that as hard as he might try, he will only ever see a little boy when he looks at his Mordred. His irrational worries may not be so unreasonable, after all.

Putting the last dish away, Merlin can’t help but think about how Mordred must be feeling. How long ago did it happen? What was the reason? Who broke up with whom? Why didn’t he tell him? As far as Merlin knows, this has been Modred’s second relationship since he started university. He did date in high school, but the way he carries himself when he is in a relationship has visibly changed, becoming much more mature and heedful, filling Merlin with joy to see his boy growing up to be such a gentleman. However, Merlin also knows breakups have never been easy on Mordred. When his first relationship ended, he spent the evening quietly crying in Merlin’s arms. It was the first time since puberty that he had voluntarily let himself be cradled like that, and besides making Merlin relieved that he was still needed by his boy, it also made him ever so protective. 

“May I come in?” Merlin asks, mostly out of formality as he creeks open the door to Mordred’s room, to see him with his legs tugged under warm blankets and a book opened haphazardly in his lap. 

“Is everything alright?” Mordred cocks his head in question. 

Merlin makes his way to sit at the edge of his bed. On the shelf above his desk stand pictures of a young kid doused in what he hopes are happy memories never to be forgotten, the occasional trophies and badges of participation, and a stuffed bear. As much as Mordred nags him about putting it away, Merlin has decided that Mr. Fluff deserves to be proudly displayed. And his say is final in this matter.

“I know you probably don’t want to hear this, but…”

“Oh, no. Honestly, I’m al-”

“Oh, hush, will you? I’m trying to be serious here.” Merlin scolds to receive an exasperated sigh. 

“Listen, I don’t know what happened, and you don’t have to tell me. It’s private and it’s your story to keep. But I do know one thing. I know you would only go into a relationship with someone if you honestly and deeply care for them. And that is a good thing. But you are young, and so are your partners. And for young people, not many things are permanent, even when they seem set in stones. Love is one of those things.”

“Frankly, I don’t know where I’m going with this.” It is Merlin’s turn to sigh this time. “But I guess what I’m saying is throughout your life, the meaning of love changes”

“It can mean getting hurt.”

Merlin was in his late teens when he realized he was not like the rest of his lot, who was impatient to shag one of the popular girls in his school. He did have a crush, but it was his best friend since childhood, Will. Merlin didn’t quite grasp the concept of being gay then, nor did he want to bother himself with the hassle of labels. All he understood was the flutter of his heart at the way Will’s call of his name sounded so crisp even in the hallway crowded with rumbustious teenagers, and how Will poured rays of sunshine into his room whenever he laughed at Merlin’s jokes. He understood that his emotions were far more profound than a hormonal fling. But on the evening of Will’s seventeenth birthday, when Merlin decided he was going to confess his feelings, Will went ahead and told him he was seeing a girl. Merlin doesn’t remember what her name was, but he does remember the saltiness of his pained tears as he lay in his bed that night.

“Sometimes, it means making mistakes you know you should have avoided.”

Merlin met Agravaine at a gay bar in London. He has never quite understood the appeal of overly loud bass-heavy music in a confined space filled with sweating bodies, but as a young man freshly out of the closet, he felt it was obligatory he explored the gay scene and all it had to offer. It was Merlin’s third attempt at clubbing when he saw Agravaine, an older guy in his late thirties eyeing him from across the dance floor. His face, his hair, the way he dressed, and how he slowly approached Merlin like a predator would its prey exuded an unmistakably overbearing haughtiness. Merlin knew better than to involve himself with the likes of him, but being stubborn as he was - perhaps, still is - he saw in Agravaine a challenge to conquer. 

Their affair was quick to ignite, burning hot in the humid English summer. Eager to prove himself, Merlin devoted his entirety to Agravaine, all too gladly letting him ravish in the innocence of his soul and body. Every moment they spent together was one of lustful corporeal passions. Every moment they were apart, Merlin spent in the uncertainty of Agravaine’s callousness, yet it only fueled his foolish zealotry the next time he was pinned under his weight. The first gust of chilling autumn wind had just brushed by the shivering canopies of sycamores when he found Agravaine with a man straddled on his lap. Merlin did not care to find out the name of the stranger, as he turned on his heel, and busy himself with wiping away angry tears that scorched their ways down his flushed cheeks. 

“It may also mean having to let go even when neither of you wants to.”

Merlin was resolute in closing himself off from romance. Instead, he immersed himself in finishing college with distinction and working as an intern in too many a company for him to recall. Soon enough, his life was filled to the brim with projects, contracts, and pitches, so much that he didn’t have the mind for the beatings of his heart, spare the occasional bitter lump in his throat on nights that his bed felt empty. 

But love was, and has always been, conniving in its surprises. Arthur Pendragon was the man that scaled the walls of Merlin’s fortress to set torches alight in the dilapidated chambers of his heart. Their love was organic, sprouting silently like how seedlings rejoice in fertile soil, its steadfast growth went by unnoticed. When they were any the wiser, they had already been too far lost in the soaring skies contained in each other’s eyes, too far addicted to the irresistible warmth of lingering touches. Neither of them could have prevented the inevitability of their love, nor did they have any desire to. 

Their first night together, Merlin cried. In the security of Arthur’s tender caresses over his body, he cried from the overwhelming ethereality wholly consuming his every sense, for as he relished in being loved he knew in much confidence he could restore his heart to its rightful throne of his soul without fear or hesitation. Transcending the calm Will’s presence brought, Arthur’s was one of entrancing holiness. Beyond Agravaine’s skin-deep kisses, Arthur’s went to the unexplored depths of Merlin’s being, where he himself had yet to wander. Merlin knew then Arthur was incomparable. 

Yet, as is the unyielding law of the universe, empires however great must fall, and to believe their kingdom was strong enough to stand exempted was foolish. Even in the ruins of the castles they built, however, Merlin’s love for Arthur was stubbornly unwavering. Merlin loved him enough to understand it would be selfish to ask him to relinquish his family to be his own. Merlin loved him enough to understand it was great pain that Arthur let go of his hands to seek one of a woman to please his father. 

Their last night together was unhurried. Each traced every inch of the other not wanting to forget how neatly they fit, each drank in the other’s hot breath lest they ever doubt the sincerity they shared, each etching words of farewells into the trembling skin of the other, promising a distant reunion despite all improbabilities. When the morning sun called him from the tangle of their sleeping bodies, Merlin left a peaceful Arthur with a chaste kiss on his golden locks. 

He stayed in Arthur’s periphery long enough to learn of the woman’s name and to ascertain by his own judgments that Guinevere was capable of providing for his love. Only then did he allow himself to cry tears of emotions that his worn heart was too tired to name. 

“But whatever meaning love may take, one thing is certain.” Merlin now turns to Mordred and places an assuring hand over where Mordred’s are balled in his lap. 

“Love never misses anyone. It gives everyone alike both happiness and sorrow. But it doesn’t do so simply to taunt us. Those moments that make your heart jump or make your chest constrict have a purpose. They are clues that together make up a treasure map that leads to its truest form unique to you. I understand these breakups you go through are difficult. They pain you more than you care to admit to me, or to yourself, so do whatever you must, cry, laugh, yell. But when you emerge on the other side of their shambles, remember all they mean is another step closer to your true love.”

When Merlin has tugged himself into his own bed, he allows his thoughts to roam free again. They drift to that afternoon he spent at the orphanage thirteen years ago. Modred, then five years old, sat by himself on a patch of dried grass. The loud screams of laughter from kids on the playground did nothing to draw him out his solitude as he picked at withered sticks on the ground. 

“What’s it to you?” was Mordred’s answer when Merlin sat down at his side to ask after the reason behind his sullenness. 

In the months that followed, Merlin spent whatever free time he found volunteering at the orphanage. Each time he visited, he brought Mordred a gift. It was toys, then comics, and ultimately he settled on homemade cookies, which he found the most effective at drawing out a reaction from the normally quiet boy. Gradually at a pace of his own, Mordred let down his defense, his arms moved from their indignant cross over his chest, to resting laxly by his side as he munched on the last chocolate chip cookie of the latest batch. And on the day Merlin went to pick up Mordred, those arms were quick to wrap themselves around his shoulders in an enrapturing embrace. 

That night, they had the simple white beans and celery stew for dinner since Merlin had forgotten to visit the market earlier, too enamored of Mordred’s bright smile as he discovered the room in Merlin’s house that was now their home. As he watched Mordred with a mouthful of stew still beaming away, his hands wild in demonstrations, Merlin’s heart decided to rise from its slumber. He had found the remedy for his ailed soul. his true love was sitting in front of him in a form he had never thought to look, a son. 

A soft knock on his bedroom’s door brings him to his feet, to find Mordred outside holding a small wrapped box. 

“I just wanted to say, uhm,” Mordred begins, one hand scratching the back of his head, his bare feet shifting back and forth on the wooden floor. He is bashfully nervous, for reasons unknown to Merlin. “Happy birthday.”

“Oh is it past midnight already?” Merlin turns to look at the clock on his nightstand and is pleasantly surprised by a pair of enveloping sturdy arms. 

“I love you, dad”

Dad. It is a heavenly word that has dotted the past fifteen years of his life. The first time he heard it was one and a half weeks after Mordred had come home, when Mordred stood by his bed, sniffling still from undoubtedly a bad dream, asking to stay in his bed for the night. The word brought sweet tears that Merlin allowed to roll quietly as he soothed Mordred back to sleep with rhythms from an old lullaby. Those same tears wet his lashes tonight as his fingers comb through tousled locks of hair. 

“I love you, son.”

  
  
  



End file.
